Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (14 page)

"Where did you get that?" the woman asked. "Was it in the picnic basket?"

"The bahsket?" Niall asked. They seemed to think they knew him. Delirium, he told himself. He wasn't feeling well. They were a bad dream. "The bahsket in the tower? Thaht's yours?"

"It's yours. You bought it." She turned to the man with a frown. "I don't think he's joking. Do you think something happened to him?" Her hand fluttered to her chest. "I never should have left him. Shawn, what happened?"

"My naeme is Niall Campbell." He drew himself, against the throbbing in his head, to his full six feet.

"He's pulling your leg," said the man. "He's getting back at you for leaving him in the tower."

But the woman shook her head. "Maybe he hit his head? Could he have fallen?"

Niall's hand flew to the head wound, inadvertently brushing the hair back at his temple and revealing the lacerations. The woman jumped forward, saying,
Oh!
her mouth and eyes round in concern. Niall's knife flashed upward. She leaped back, fearful, scuffling stones under her feet. Wisps of fog swirled around her trews.

"He's hurt, Rob!" Her hand and voice hovered, as if she wanted to reach for him, touch the injury as Allene had done, but she kept her distance, her eyes flitting between his dirk and his face.

The man, this Rob, gaped at the bruise. To the woman, he said, "It looks like he hit it something awful." And to Niall, “Could you put away the knife?"

"I'm fine," Niall spoke clearly, pushing back at the disorientation pressing in on him. These half-dressed village fools were treating him like he was the one with addled brains! He wondered himself what illness had taken a hold of him. Regardless, these people would speak to him as the future Laird, not about him as a simpleton. He ignored the man's suggestion to put away his 'knife,' and said, "Naeme yourselves."

"It's me, Amy." The woman was obviously distressed now. "Rob, what should we do? He's hurt because of me. I'll never forgive myself."

"And you, Sir?"

"What's with the outfit?" the man asked, instead of answering.

Niall looked down at his own clothes: a perfectly serviceable pair of trews, a sturdy belted tunic, leather boots, and a plaid thrown over his shoulder. Surely they couldn't fault his clothing. He looked back at them in annoyance. "You will dae me the respect.…" he began.

The woman ignored him. "He bought it yesterday." She looked more closely. "Shawn, you didn't steal that tartan from the displays here, did you? Wasn't yours red?"

"Sairely nawt!" Niall snapped. "The MacDougalls wair red. The MacDonalds wair blue. Whoot nawnsense is this! Sir, your naeme."

"Funny, Shawn." The man slid his arm around the woman, and drew her back. He spoke with less certainty now.

She nudged him. "Just tell him, Rob. They say you should humor them."

The man eyed the knife.

"You think I'm dangerous?" Niall noted his look with amusement. "I'm verra safe as long as you air no threat to me or my clan. Apart from battle, I've only ever killed a MacDougall an' tha' for haerming my nephew."

The woman stepped back. The man's face blanched to the color of his hair. "Easy, Shawn. I'm no threat," he said. "I'm not a MacDougall. I don't even know any MacDougalls."

"Quit messing around, Shawn," the woman said weakly. "It's not funny." But she stared again at his temple.

The man leaned close to the woman. "Where's your phone?" he asked.

"In the car." She kept her eyes on Niall.

Niall pitied them. Such gibberish.
Foon! Khar!
"I'm nawt this Shawn," he said. "Sairch the cahstle yerselves if ye think such a pairson is here. But I dinna think sae." He waved his hands at them, as at a flock of chickens. They jumped, looking frightened. The man edged the woman behind him. Niall realized he was still holding the knife, and, deciding they were no threat, pushed it into his boot. "Check the tower!" he said, irritably. Every part of him ached, the dizziness was closing in again, and he wanted to know what was going on. "Go find this Shawn ye think is here!"

"How did you get in last night?" the man asked the woman. He cast a doubtful glance at the thick stone walls, rising behind Niall.

"Come along," Niall said. He led them back up the stony path, pushing through ribbons of fog, to the water gate. This time, he gave it a good kick, tearing apart the lock. It burst apart.

"Shawn!" the woman gasped. "You just broke it!"

"Twas obviously not built well," Niall replied.

"Never mind, Amy," the man whispered, ushering her between the broken slats. "We've got bigger problems."

They stared at each other, in the castle's inner close, now. Niall gestured toward the tower. "Go 'won!"

They looked at each other uncertainly. "I need to get the basket," Amy said.

"Uh-uh." The man shook his head. "I'm not staying here alone with him." But he did stay, staring at Niall. The woman, Amy, strode toward the tower. She looked back once over her shoulder, then broke into a run across the grassy courtyard, her long hair swinging, and the last of the mist darting in and out between her flying feet.

The man looked after her for just a moment and turned back to Niall. He steeled his eyes and lowered his voice. "This isn't funny. Don't hurt her." Niall bristled. He did not harm women or children. "I know you can get me fired," Rob added. Niall wondered if he meant at the stake, or fired at, with arrows. "But I'm not going to let you hurt her."

Brave man, Niall thought, noting Rob's wiry build. But then, such men were sometimes stronger than they looked. Still, he'd not dignify such insult with an answer. He hardened his jaw.

Rob gave Niall one last hard stare, then yelled after the woman, "Amy, you're not going to find anyone up there!" He gave a darting glance at the knife jutting from Niall's boot, and hurried after her.

* * *

Amy and Rob hurried across the courtyard, shaken. "Amy, either he's pushing this joke to the limit, or he needs a doctor." At the tower entrance, they stole a quick look back at Shawn, lounging against a wall, watching them. "Think he's laughing at us?" Rob muttered.

They entered the dim interior, onto the twisting stone stairs. Amy stumbled once on the uneven surface, despite sunlight pouring through the archers' slots. Halfway up, under the window with the stone cross in its center, she bit her lip, and leaned against the wall, hugging herself. "What have I done, Rob? What have I done to him?"

"The question is, what are you
doing?
" Rob asked.

"Just getting the basket." She shivered.

"Are you sure?" He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. "You know he's not up there, right?"

"I know. I know he can't be, but...."

"If he was, he'd be mad." In the cool, dim stairwell, Rob slipped an arm around her, smiling. "Maybe I'd rather see him hung over and in a rage up here, than unbalanced and wielding a knife back there."

Amy laughed uneasily. "I don't want to think I did that to him. So if he's not up here, that has to be him, right?"

"Of course it's him. That's a pretty vicious blow to the head."

"To give him an accent, though? He's like a different person."

"Head injuries do strange things. Remember Phineas Gage?"

Amy shook her head.

"A steel rod went through his head in an explosion, back in the 1800's. He survived, but he was a totally different person afterward." He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him. "He'll be okay."

Amy leaned her head on his chest for a moment, then pulled quickly away. "Shawn!" she shouted. The sound bounced around the silvery stairwell. She darted up the uneven steps, suddenly believing she would see Shawn, hung over but healthy in his red tartan, the tartan of the MacDougalls. She burst into the sunshine pouring over the parapets.

The tower was empty.

* * *

Niall lounged by the gatehouse. Never show weakness his military tutors had taught him. Though sweat trickled icily inside his tunic, and he leaned against the wall for support, he put a cocky expression on his face and cleaned his nails with his dirk, striving for nonchalance. He gazed around the deserted bailey. He'd felt the fever growing. But he'd known dreams of delirium, and this felt too real. Maybe it was some doing of the MacDougalls.

The man and woman appeared at the bottom of the tower, staring at him, heads leaned close, whispering. He studied them, through eyes half closed, breathing deeply to steady the dizziness. They looked back up at him and crossed the courtyard. They seemed harmless; scared of him, in fact.

He tucked the knife into the top of his boot and straightened as they reached him. He strove to keep his voice strong and his eyes direct, despite the heaviness pressing on his brain. "Where aer the MacDonalds?"

The woman's face fell. She and the man, Rob, exchanged glances. She whispered with a tremor, "Come to the car."

He pushed himself off the wall, tensing every muscle against growing weakness. With his hand on her back, Rob guided Amy through the cool stone breezeway of the gatehouse.

Niall breathed hard, both from the physical exertion of following them, and from the shock of seeing a stone bridge where the drawbridge had been. It arched over a pleasant grassy glen where the loch's waters, only last night, had flowed into the moat. King Herla flashed across his mind. But that was ridiculous. A steady drumming throbbed in his head.

Rob spoke over his shoulder. "Conrad's really pissed this time."

Niall fought to concentrate through the growing haze. Sweat beaded his brow. "Conrad?" he asked faintly. He followed them across an empty lee that should have held sheep, chickens, and a kiln; through a gate that wouldn't stop MacDougall's dullest bairn, let alone an army, to a field of beaten earth. On it crouched a beast on giant black paws, with a flat back, big enough to swallow several men. Sunlight glinted off its flanks. Its glassy eyes stared at him. It bared a wide row of teeth.

Rob and Amy walked right up to it.

Niall stopped abruptly, grabbing for his dirk. He studied the thing, watched Amy and Rob circle it fearlessly. Seeing no motion, no sense of danger, he approached it, ran his hand over the smooth, white surface. It was metal like his dagger, but white as a newly washed shift!

"Toto," intoned Rob, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

Niall looked up. He no longer feared these people. "What is it?" he asked.

Amy grabbed the beast's flank, ripped it open, rummaging within. Niall closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and opened them again. Sweat broke from his forehead, trickling down his jaw. The thing had no innards. Amy's voice floated out. "Shawn, you're really scaring me." She sniffed. He closed the gap between them. She stood up, a colorful parchment in her hand, turned, and jumped. He wanted to brush away the forming tears.

"Please, doona cry," he said, softly. "I've no wish to scare ye."

She gave a start; her hands fluttered. She dropped her gaze to the ground, met his eyes, and turned away again. Niall wondered that she seemed so unnerved by an apology. But then, it must all surely be a fevered dream. She raised her head again. A verra nice dream, he thought, looking into eyes as dark as the loch on a moonlit night.

From across the beast, leaning on its back, Rob cleared his throat. "The brochure, Amy."

"Yeah." She broke the look between them, wiping at her nose. She unfolded the parchment, muttering, "The MacDonalds."

Niall gave the beast one last look, dismissing it as harmless, despite its odd appearance. He slid his hand onto the parchment over hers, and took it, holding it over his knife. He frowned at the colorful miniature paintings, the plethora of script. It was like the thing he'd found in the basket. "What is it?" he asked.

"A...a brochure. It tells about the castle."

Niall ran his finger over the script, studying shapes, forming words. He'd never known a monk to copy such tiny letters. This couldn't be the MacDougall's doing. "Does it say where my clan has gone?" It seemed unlikely. They'd been there last night. Nobody could create this piece so quickly, telling the story.

His vision wavered suddenly. He put his hand on the beast to steady himself. A shudder wracked his body. Cold crawled through him, under the heat of the fever.

She reached up to touch his cheek. He jolted at her brazenness. She gasped. "Rob, he's clammy."

Dizziness swamped him, like a stormy wave on the loch. From inside the dark wave, he heard the woman shout. The dirk fell from his shaking hands, clattering to the ground, and they were on him, the man catching him as he fell, the woman crying, "He's burning up!" and her cool hands on his cheek, her lips on his forehead. She smelled sweet and clean. He tried to pull his head out of her warm bosom, but lacked the strength. His limbs flailed like a newborn babe. "What have I done to him!" she wailed. The wave swallowed him and sucked him down, shutting out light and sound.

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland

"Join us, Niall," said one of the older men. Shawn found himself growing accustomed to their accent. He inclined his head in respect—it seemed like a healthy habit here—and seated himself at the table. Iohn sat beside him.

"Let us review for Niall."

"Could you start with the basics?" Shawn asked. "What year is it?" He touched his head to keep them aware of his excuse for any peculiar behavior he was bound to exhibit. What year is it—the first question doctors always asked concussed patients.

Silence sprang up around the table. They all stared at him.

"Just the head injury...wound," Shawn said. "Just...just checking. Joking, really," he finished lamely. "Jesting."

"The year of our Lord, thirteen fourteen," said the smaller man.

"You're...." Shawn studied each of their faces. They gazed back solemnly. Clearly they weren't joking. Actors, he reminded himself. In the camps, they'd always told visitors it was the historical year they were re-enacting. The actors yesterday had said it was, what, 1413, 1430? Maybe they'd said 1314. They lived it and breathed it. Clearly these people were firmly entrenched in their own world. They would send him off on Niall's mission, and he would find a phone and call Rob and get back to his own world. And a latte. Hot, strong coffee and a bed to sleep it off were really all he asked of life right now. It wasn't so much.